


The Small Cramped Dark of My Most Unlikely Places

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Series: It's Us Against the World [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Established Relationship, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex Character, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”<br/>― Roald Dahl</p><p> </p><p>“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”<br/>― Sylvia Plath</p><p>Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is not so jaded as to forget the magic in which he was starting to believe with John. A story of communication breakdowns, secret-keeping, and apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Small Cramped Dark of My Most Unlikely Places

_One_.

Later, he’ll remember his anger most of all, Sherlock’s words in the lab and his disregard for Mrs. Hudson and then the numb, cracking disbelief that saps all the color from the world as he takes in the absence of his best friend’s pulse. But there’s also a discussion earlier that day, where Sherlock casually tells John, completely out of character for the sentiment of it, that he wants to retire together, and before John can ask why he’s thinking of that mid-case of all things, Sherlock starts nattering on about  _insects_.

“I’ve always had a fondness for bees. There’s a pleasant order to their social structure… but they’ll surprise you sometimes. They’re not as frightening as most people think they are… could be taken out by a match or some determined assassin bugs.” He glances up at John. “I feel like you and I are a couple of honey bees, sometimes." 

John just smiles, kisses him, and tells him to go back to work. Sherlock's romantic gestures come in all the strangest ways.

  
_Twenty_.

John wakes in a cold sweat from a dream of Sherlock on his knees, perfectly submissive to John but stiller than he ever was in life, bleeding slowly into a dark crimson pool around his calves, coming from a wound John can’t identify. John tries to stop him, to get him to lie down, to administer medical care, but Sherlock just sits there, eyes on the floor. After the dream, he half considers talking to Harry—he’s not unaware that it’s a bad sign, how long he’s hid in this flat alone, only just returning to the surgery this week for the monotony of routine and in order to pay the rent. He quashes the idea, but thinks he must be even crazier because he next considers phoning Mycroft.

In the end, he goes round the pub for supper with Lestrade, and tries not to focus on the guilt and pity in the Inspector’s eyes. He wears a jumper that still smells like Sherlock, but then all his jumpers do.

_One hundred and one._

To all outward appearances, John is “back to normal.” Perhaps a few know better—Mrs. Hudson, for one, insists on having him down for tea once a week, and occasionally John thinks he spots a black umbrella swinging in his periphery, though that’s more likely paranoid delusions. In truth, he’s learned to be a better actor, mimicking the gestures and expressions of the successfully healed. He works, sees the occasional mate, deliberately does not drink. He doesn’t throw away the half-used bottle of lubricant by Sherlock’s bed, nor does he use it. He alternates between sleeping there and upstairs, wanting the familiar scent and wanting not to overwhelm it with his own. It’s long gone now, but he still sometimes sleeps in those sheets, the light coming in from a different angle than it does in his own bedroom.

A package is just inside 221's outer door when he returns home from his shift, a square box with a postmark in a language he doesn’t recognize. Before he opens it he Googles the text, and finds that it’s Czech, that the location is a small town not far from the Polish border. There’s no return address, nor does he recognize the handwriting on the label or know anyone who’s traveling. Would he know if anyone were traveling? he wonders sarcastically, using a pocket knife to neatly slice open the tape. Inside, packed in tissue paper, is a small jar of dark amber honey, with a French label proclaiming it “Miel de Camargue.”

For a second, his heart stops, remembering his conversation with Sherlock about bees, but then he shakes his head to clear it, forcing himself for the thousandth time not to dwell on the fact that the love of his life is dead. It’s not the first time he’s encountered the Czech Republic, he remembers, with the Golem and the art forger. Perhaps some dotty client they once helped is sending a belated present. It wouldn’t be the only time, in fact, a number of men and women who remain loyal to Sherlock have sent him gifts over the past few months, along with their condolences. He sighs and puts it on a shelf, thinking perhaps he’ll have it on toast in place of his usual jam. Small pleasures to look forward to, these days.

_Two hundred and twenty three._

Mrs. Hudson invites him round for coffee with Mrs. Turner, and won’t actually let him say no. She still makes tea when it’s just him, but Mycroft Holmes bought her a state-of-the-art espresso machine that makes her nostalgic for her early days in America. When Mycroft tried to give John fancy presents, after the funeral, John told him just where to shove it, but Mrs. Hudson simply admonishes him that hurt feelings don’t make a decent Americano.

Privately, he’ll admit that the coffee  _is_  good, and he doesn’t much mind the inane chatter. Mrs. Turner tells a story about one of her nephews, and he actually laughs. “Sounds like Sherlock,” John shares. “He’s always doing these little things that make you wonder how on earth a genius could be so dim.” They both look at him quietly, for a moment, smiles falling, and John realizes his slip.

“Was. Was doing,” he corrects quickly, and pretends not to see Mrs. Hudson’s little worried looks. He knows that denial isn’t supposed to last this long, that it’s important to start using past tense and start believing that Sherlock is really, truly dead, but he can’t quite. He still likes to pretend, occasionally. If it makes him insane, he’s not exactly sure that he cares. He wasn’t exactly sane before Sherlock showed up, anyway, was he?

_Three hundred and fifty one._

John almost laughs at first, when he wakes up and realizes he’s been kidnapped. This would be a fitting way to go, he thinks. Kidnapped with Sherlock dead and unable to rescue him. These aren’t even big time criminals, though there are two of them to one of him and they’re armed. 

“Morning, doc,” the smaller one leers, smirking above him with a thick Scouse accent. The fact that he’s letting John see his face doesn’t bode well—either that, or they’re stupid. He’s more concerned right now about the fact that another concussion in his lifetime is really not something that he needs, though at least it seems mild given his mental clarity. He smiles a little, and that seems to unsettle the man. “Let’s get to the point,” he suggests, and punches John in the face, although this time, it doesn’t knock him out. It does knock him back, and the chair he’s chained to falls back far enough to make his stomach swoop before it’s caught by the other goon. “I’m down a source of oxy, and you’re looking like a good candidate right now."

John spits blood and stares at him incredulously, realizing that what they're after has nothing to do with Sherlock or a past case or his reputation. “You don’t even know my name, do you?"

The man laughs. “Don’t give a shite, actually. Pills, doc. Gonna need a little prescription."

John looks him up and down, quickly assessing. “You’re not high. Not going through withdrawals. Dealer, then?"

“What do you think this is, a quiz show?” He gets a punch in the stomach for his trouble, and damn, that hurts. “I’ll be needing a regular supply of a few choice medicines, if you please. I’ll give you names to make the prescriptions out to, better yet you get the pills yourself. Or I could blow your brains out right here."

John offers his most charming smile. “Mind if I think on it a bit?” 

The goon spits in disgust, saliva landing on John’s trouser leg, and kicks John in the shin, but actually does as he’s told, nodding for his mate to follow. “Twenty minutes."

When their footfalls fade, John immediately starts thinking, even as he’s looking for a weakness in the bonds. Metal chains, metal chair, not loose enough to slip, so that’s not to his favor. They were at least smart enough to lock his feet up above the ground, so he can’t awkwardly try to toddle his way to safety. He almost just wants to get shot in the face, relatively quick way to go, except that he hates to die over something so  _trivial._  Sherlock’s rubbing off on him, he thinks with a smile, then remembers that the man’s been dead nearly a year and stops thinking.  _Concentrate_.

He’s not certain they’re dumb enough to manipulate. Certainly they’ll want him to get  _some_  drugs for them as a good faith effort, though he’s not sure how they intend to ensure his cooperation after that. He’s mulling through the problem when the men suddenly return, and the talkier one looks decidedly angry.

“You little cunt,” he growls, striding forward with steps twice as long as natural and backhanding John with that near-running start. He tucks his chin and manages not to hit his head when he falls, but it still hurts like fuck to land flat on his back like that. The men loom over him, and he just stares, at a loss for why they’re back so quickly. The quiet one is holding up a phone, which John realizes is his, and then it clicks in his head just as the same man kicks him hard in the thigh. “‘Bout half of the numbers in this thing belong to the  _Met_. What are you, doc, a fucking plant? You even a doctor?"

“…my ID’s in my wallet,” John points out, but clearly the thugs aren’t convinced as they push his chair back upright again. 

“Oh is it?” Chatterbox mocks, smacking him in the face again. This time the chair rocks, but doesn’t fall. “Let’s see if you have the same answer when Mac here cuts your balls off.” He reaches for John’s fly, and this is actually the first time real fear spikes in John’s gut, icy in its familiar clarity. 

“All right, all right. Wait. I’ll talk,” he offers. 

“I’m listening,” Chatterbox replies, clicking back the safety on his gun and aiming directly at John’s crotch. He turns his head slightly and sees that the other one also has his gun drawn. John takes a deep breath. 

“I’m not a copper. I’m just an informant. I honestly didn’t know you guys were…" 

“Wrong answer,” Chatterbox grunts, and reaches again for John’s fly, popping the button open with the hand not holding the gun and tugging at John’s briefs. He hisses in air, hips trying to struggle despite his lack of leverage, and is prepared for the sudden “what the  _fuck_?” from the man’s mouth when he reaches inside. He is not prepared, however, for the loud  _bang_  of a gunshot, nor the brain matter spattering all over him. It seems the other thug is just as flummoxed, but only for an instant, as he turns and aims his weapon at John. What happens next is hardly clear—John throws his shoulder hard to the left, instinctively trying to knock himself out of the line of fire. He hears a shot, then a thud, and doesn’t feel the sharp burst of pain that would accompany a GSW. There’s a struggle, then a sick crack that sounds like someone getting pistol-whipped across the face. Another thud, and then soft hands on his face, stroking his hair back.

“John? Are you all right? John?” 

Definitely a nightmare, John decides as everything fuzzes together and fades quickly to black.

_Three hundred and fifty two._  

It’s too bright when John blinks his eyes open, and the light isn’t coming from his own bedroom window or Sherlock's. It seems to be coming from everywhere, and for half a second John thinks he’s dead, until he registers a very dry mouth and a pounding headache. Hospital. He tries to reach for the call button without looking, but he can’t quite find it with his fingers. Mercifully, a straw comes to his parched lips a minute later regardless.

“I expect you’ll be needing water and paracetamol, now the sedative’s wearing off."

John’s eyes fly open at that, and he spits the cold water all over Sherlock Holmes’ shirt front.

“Sherlock!” It’s more of a croak than an actual exclamation, but Sherlock winces nonetheless.

“John. Drink, first. Then yell."

John glares as hard as he can, but that just hurts his head, so he sips through the straw. His vision’s bad, only coming out of one eye, and then he remembers being repeatedly punched in the face. He cringes and sips a little more. 

“Yes, quite. I’m sorry I didn’t interfere sooner. Mycroft said he had it under control and wouldn’t give me the coordinates, so I didn’t get into position until that idiot threw your chair over. Couldn’t get a clear shot off at first. Too risky."

“You didn’t think it was risky to shoot when there were  _two men with guns_?"

“He was going to…” Sherlock grits his teeth. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t let you die, and then the other one aimed at you and I couldn’t let him… I had to get in the way."

John frowns at Sherlock's phrasing, collecting his hazy memories of the incident as he takes another sip of water. “Sherlock.” He uses his sharpest Army voice, his most dominant. “Did you jump in front of a _bullet_ to keep some thug from getting a look in at my bits?"

“Tried to.” He has the gall to smile, though it’s sheepish. “Missed."

“What the  _hell_?” John roars. “You were  _dead!_ "

“Out of the country."

“Clearly  _not_." 

“Out of the country until three days ago, John. There were some things I had to do. You were in danger.  _Mrs. Hudson_ was in danger. You couldn’t know."

“You’re kidding me. I couldn’t know that you weren't  _dead_?" 

“I’d hoped…” Sherlock puts the water cup down, sighing deeply. “There’s a count on your desktop. What does it say?"

John inhales sharply. No one is supposed to know about that. Doesn’t matter, though, he supposes, now. “Three fifty two,” he murmurs.

“Wrong." 

“ _Pardon_?"

“Wrong! John, what day did I jump? What day was that, in your count?"

John reaches up and squeezes the bridge of his nose, despite the pain. He takes a slow, deep breath, and responds quietly. “That was day one, you cock."

When he looks up again, he’s surprised to see Sherlock smiling. “No it wasn’t. It was day zero. You never understood the message, did you? Christ.” He shakes his head from side to side, and John wants to punch him.

“Understood. What. Message?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Day one hundred. What did you get in the post on day one hundred? Or—sorry—101?"

John breathes in and stares. “The honey. It really was…"

“Yes."

“But…  _why_? A fucking jar of honey??"

"Honey bees," Sherlock says, though his confidence seems to waver a bit, the certainty leaking out of his voice. "I told you on the last day, that we were like honey bees. Mycroft didn't think you'd understand, but I thought you'd know, at least, the broader point. That I was alive." 

"I remembered, I just didn't dare to hope. ...So Mycroft knew," John says, his voice deadly calm now. It's not a surprise, but it does hurt just that little bit more.

"He provided crucial intelligence," Sherlock murmurs. "And when I told him the idea to reference the honey bees in a coded note, he thought perhaps I should consider a Plan B, a simpler message. But he wouldn't deliver it for me. Said you'd dust for fingerprints and then find a way to murder him."

"Wise man, Mycroft Holmes," John agrees flatly. "I did check for prints. All that came up was an English postal worker with a record."

"Just so."

"So if communicating the fact that you were alive was plan B, then what the hell was the _more_ cryptic message?" John asks, reaching for water as his mouth starts to dry again.

"I'd hoped you'd understand that I'd had to escape. The bit about the assasin bugs was only luck, too, but it could have worked in my favor. I referenced honey bees because I thought I could use the reference as a way to identify myself that you would understand but others wouldn't, later. I knew it was going to come down to completely obliterating my reputation, likely a false suicide, eventually. I had no idea about Moriarty's assassins, but Mycroft wouldn’t let me use that bit of luck anyway." He looks vaguely peeved, and John frowns. 

"Anthea told me they were all dead. So why would you want to send me some cryptic reference to Moriarty's assassins?"

"Oh, _John_ , not  _those_ assassins! The ones targeting you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Three bullets...why did Anthea tell you about the other assassins, anyway?"

"Favor from Mycroft. He must have felt guilty, and frankly I _see why now_ , Sherlock."

"Well yes, obviously. All his fault, should have used the note I originally planned..." 

"No," John interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "It is not all his fault."

"A lot of it is. I knew if you didn't know the whole story you'd just be pissed off that I was alive and you couldn't help, knowing wouldn't matter. You needed the entire message, to understand that you were in danger and thus couldn't be involved..."

"No," John repeats. "You can't fob this all off on your brother, Sherlock. Not if you ever want us to be an 'us' again." Sherlock stares at him then, hard, and then his face seems to crumple as if it’s the first time he’s considered the possibility. Perhaps it is. John hates to watch, but he has to remain firm. "It's not about logic and who had the better plan. You can have a reason for doing something and still be sorry, you know." Sherlock's face twists again, this time in confusion, and John has to remind himself how naive the younger man sometimes still is in matters of the heart. "Because you care. Because pain doesn't follow logic, and even if your reason was perfectly sound, I _grieved_  for you. Facts don't always matter. The man I loved died that day."

He can see Sherlock struggling with it, wanting to argue, but he also sees the moment of acceptance, after Sherlock spends a long time just looking at his face. John wonders if Sherlock can actually deduce how heartbreak feels, if he can access emotion that way. The numb fist around his heart eases a bit, though, when Sherlock takes a hesitant step closer to the bedside.

"I apologize," he says. John can see the effort it takes for Sherlock _not_ to keep talking, to let silence hang in the air after that declaration rather than force the issue. John lets him sit with it for a full minute before he allows Sherlock a small smile.

"It's not okay, Sherlock. I don't know when it will be. But the fact that I love you doesn't change. I can't believe you actually got in the way of a bullet for me. You could've waited for a better moment."

"No," Sherlock disagrees, looking away. "You... you've fought for too long, to be able to let people know on your own terms. He was going to take that away from you through violence. He would have..."

"All right," John interrupts, reaching out for Sherlock's hand. "I get it. Thank you."

Sherlock frowns. "This is all wrong. How can you be thanking me... saying that you love me... when you..." He gestures vaguely at John. "I can _see_ your pain, and given the amount of morphine you're on that's frankly impressive."

Perhaps due to influence of said morphine, John giggles, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "Emotional pain doesn't respond to drugs, love."

"Now you see why I dislike it," Sherlock grumbles, but John just feels helplessly fond around the edges of the anger in his chest.

"No one's perfect. Not even you. What you did was wrong… it wasn’t okay. And everything isn’t going to _be_  okay, not for a while at least. But you can't make me stop loving you by fucking up... apparently even with such a massive fuckup as this one. I need time to forgive you, but I can't deny that I love you."

Sherlock makes a kind of desperate sound, and bends over John's bed for a kiss that's a little awkward and too hard, betraying the man's emotions. John cups the back of his head and lets control flow into it, evening out the movements of their mouths until it's something wonderfully, miraculously familiar.

~*~

“You know what the strangest thing about all of this might be?” John muses later, after he’s consumed a frankly awful meal of hospital chicken, peas, and mash. 

“Enlighten me,” Sherlock responds, sitting in a chair pulled up to John’s bedside where he’s been relegated from his spot at the edge of the bed, so that John can actually use the tray table. 

“Your brother. You really let him advise you… on anything?” 

Sherlock cracks a smile at that. “Only for you, John. I had to rely on his resources… to some extent, his advice. He understands people more than I do, and I couldn’t risk your rejection. It was his opinion that simply popping up would be inadvisable. But when it came to this incident, I couldn’t risk your safety.” 

“You said earlier that he withheld information from you when I was kidnapped. He’s been tracking me?” 

“To some extent. We do still have enemies in the world. I… requested it.” Sherlock flinches a bit, obviously expecting John’s reproach. “I didn’t expect him to be so fussy about my own safety, though, when you were actually in danger and I had the means necessary to prevent it.” Sherlock frowns, and John rolls his eyes. 

“One of the few things I _do_ like about your brother, his regard for your safety. And I suppose you’re not wrong about the enemies, though I never caught sight of any of them after you jumped.” John raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “I assure you the surveillance was minimally invasive.” 

“Yes, all right. Still, I don’t understand why you would trust him with my safety when you _were_  away, and then would come in shooting when you had the chance. You could’ve _actually_  died.” 

“I know,” Sherlock admits, soft and oddly penitent. “But he opened your trousers, and it made me angry that anyone would dare to violate you in that way. Perhaps… a bit stupid.” The admission, coming from Sherlock, is far more of a declaration than a simple “I love you.” John smiles and reaches out for him, takes his hand at the edge of the bed. 

“Perhaps a bit.” He rubs his thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand, still shocked that he has a chance to exchange such simple touches again. The number of close calls they’ve had, even outside Sherlock’s stunt, makes him wonder if he should start believing in a God.

“I think you’re wrong to forgive me,” Sherlock admits after several long minutes of comfortable silence. John frowns. 

“Not exactly the best argument to be making, love.”  

“But a logical one. It makes no sense, that you can both judge me guilty _and_  choose to accept me back. You’ve created a frustrating paradox.” 

“Maybe for you,” John smiles. “Like I said, no one is perfect. I don’t want to love an ideal of you. That would be boring, for one. And besides that, knowing and sharing and protecting your imperfections is a big part of what I want to do as a lover.” 

“It is?” Sherlock frowns.

“Absolutely. I need that from you.” John squeezes his hand, considering another way to explain. “Do you remember that time Harry lashed out at me about how I’m always keeping secrets, and you thought she was crazy because I don’t keep secrets?"

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, relatively blank, and then nods, apparently pulling the relevant file from his place. “You only said ‘not from you.’ I was rather pleased." 

John smiles. “I imagine you were. But honestly, that was never something I expected when we met. I _do_  keep things close to the chest. I don’t like to talk about myself. But that’s part of why you were so brilliant, from the start.” He flips his hand over, palm up, slides it underneath Sherlock’s and the detective traces the lines with his fingertips, stroking to John’s wrist and back. “There was absolutely no reason I should’ve felt safe with you, the way I do. Not before we got to know each other, in any event. But that was there from almost the beginning.” 

“Almost,” Sherlock picks out. “When?” 

“I’m not entirely certain. Maybe it was because of what you got wrong, when you deduced me. About Harry being a brother. We grew up as the same gender, more or less. There’s no easy way to explain to anyone that I have an identical twin sister.” 

“Ah. That’s your secret, then?” 

“No,” John smiles. “I have a lot of secrets. From other people. Even being a boy was my secret, for a long time. That’s the earliest secret I kept from Harry, I think. Mostly because I can’t say when I knew. It just… _was_.” 

Sherlock nods. “I feel… much the same.” 

“Right.” John laughs. “It sounds stupid now, but I was selfish as a child. I kept that secret for a long time, because I cared about my family. I knew it would hurt them.” 

“You’ve always had that weakness,” Sherlock muses, flaring a bit of the flame he'd felt earlier up in John’s gut. “Caring too deeply.” 

“Bullshit,” John protests, drawing his hand back. “Don’t you _dare_  try that Mycroft Holmes crap with me,” he hisses. “I know you too well. I watched you _leap off a building_ , Sherlock… that’s the whole point of this. You don’t get the luxury of pretending not to care anymore. Not with me."

He keeps his gaze intense on Sherlock’s face as it falls, and then Sherlock drops his head, almost seems to crumple in on himself without actual movement, and then finally takes a breath, bending to kiss John’s palm. “Forgive me. I’ve been… reliant on masks, of late. But I made a promise to myself, not to forget this. I _haven’t_.” 

Of course, John can’t help but feel sympathy. He wants to know what Sherlock’s gone through, in this past year. Later. He’s almost afraid of those stories, but he wants to hear every one of them. 

“I know you haven’t,” he says now, stroking Sherlock’s cheek and jaw until Sherlock finally sits straight again and laces their fingers together. “I just… this is what I’m getting at. No one else has to know what we are, or who you are, if you don’t want them to. But I need you to be open with me. I need you to trust that your imperfections won’t drive me away… but dishonesty will. Being stubborn all the time, or too proud to reveal things to me or admit when you’re wrong or apologize, will. I know it’s a process that will take some time, but it’s a big bloody deal for me, because of what I’ve done for you.” 

“Because I keep your secrets,” Sherlock states somberly. John smiles.

“In part because of that. In part because I’ve never been quite this open in a relationship,” he admits, and it’s only the past year of grieving that has allowed him to fully admit that to himself. “I would’ve shut down with anyone else, after Harry outed me the way she did. But you were already… you. I didn’t know that you were trans yet,” John points out, voice low in case anyone is passing in the corridor, “but you were already who you were to me. And the way you reacted was perfect.” 

“What about your other relationships?” Sherlock asks. “You never talk much about them. Even to me.” 

“No,” John agrees. “I like to let what’s past stay past. And a lot of them were good, but… not all. Some were complicated. I never trusted a boyfriend with keeping my secret, before I came out to my family. Occasionally someone would tease me about being boyish, but I had a very good poker face. I let people assume I was straight.” 

“And after?” 

John shrugs. “I like to date. You know that. But I’ve avoided things getting too serious. I can usually find a way to justify keeping my trousers on for a while. I’ve had a couple of boyfriends and a few flings that were comfortable with sex with me, but I’ve also let a couple of good things go because I was scared of being outed.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I assumed that you were as confident with everyone as you are with me. That you’re just like that.” 

John smiles. “It’s funny that you’ve had this for so long and didn’t know it. This place in my life. My secret-keeper, if you want to call it that.” He reaches out, tugs Sherlock in by the back of the neck, closer to his bed. “My transition isn’t the only thing you know about that most people don’t, you know. Now that you know who you are to me, you have every power to ruin me.” 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Yeah,” John agrees, tugging until Sherlock pushes up from the chair and leans over John’s bed, obediently bringing John his mouth. John kisses him slowly, letting the moment expand, gently pulling at Sherlock’s lip with his teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” he adds between kisses. “If you ever left, it would ruin me anyway, whether you told my secrets or not. That’s been proven definitively, don’t you think?” 

Sherlock frowns, makes a sound almost like a whimper and presses his hands to John’s face, pleading with his kisses. John has to hold in a laugh, because Sherlock is the last person anyone would expect to resemble a puppy dog, but occasionally he quite does. “I wouldn’t,” Sherlock promises, pushing the tray table aside and climbing right into the narrow bed, perched on one hip in the narrow space between John and the bed rail. “I understand now,” he murmurs. “I think I understand.” 

“Yeah?” John asks, awkwardly reaching across his own body to pet Sherlock’s hip. 

“I wanted to protect your life,” Sherlock murmurs in low, thoughtful tones. “It was all I could think of, but… perhaps selfish. The truth is deceptively simple,” he admits, a worried frown creeping onto his face. “Your heartbreak when you believed I was dead was a fate worse than death, in a way. You wouldn’t have felt anything had you been killed, but instead you lived with the pain… and had you died, I would have followed you immediately, because I couldn’t possibly bear that pain… God,” he exclaims, clutching at John’s hospital gown. “I’ve felt that way for so long, that I would rather die than live without you… it never occurred to me to reverse the situation. Is that really what the past year has been for you? I can’t bear to imagine it,” he groans dramatically. "How do you even _live_  with this empathy all the time?” He holds John closer, pressing his face to John’s chest, and John laughs, stroking his back in soothing passes.  

“It was hard,” John admits, not mincing words since he’s been lecturing Sherlock about honesty. “I thought of swallowing my gun a few times. But I had that thought before I ever met you, and here I am still.” 

Sherlock hugs a bit tighter, until John winces, and then he shifts back up onto his side again, watching John intently and putting a hand over John’s heart. “I promise. Next time I will protect your heart over your life.” 

“I don’t know about all that,” John shakes his head. “How about just consulting me first, yeah? And if you’re tempted to do something like this again, see if you can push that empathy button by imagining how you’d feel in the reverse situation.” 

“Do I have to?” Sherlock whines.

John laughs and kisses him gently. “Empathy isn’t always a bad thing, numptie. It’s probably a lot like how everyone else perceives your mind palace—they can’t imagine how you could possibly walk around thinking like that all the time. But it’s worth it.”  

“Right, because the mind palace is a _good_  thing. Empathy is about feeling someone else’s pain, and I thoroughly _dis_ like pain, John.” John is tempted to beg to differ, but he knows what Sherlock means and takes a different approach.

“Yes, but it’s not all about pain. Imagine what empathy is like when I watch you orgasm,” he grins, and Sherlock shudders as he processes that. “Go to sleep, Sherlock,” he murmurs, reaching up for the light and letting the room fall into darkness.  

Perhaps because he’s missed following orders since he left London, or perhaps simply due to the comfort of hearing them from someone with decent orders to give, Sherlock obeys. 


End file.
